


This Time

by seryle



Series: Times [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, M/M, Not A Happy Ending, Not exactly destiel, if you want pain, you've got it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-17
Updated: 2013-10-17
Packaged: 2017-12-29 15:41:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,373
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1007151
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seryle/pseuds/seryle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prequel to "Next time." Read that first if you want to know what this is about.</p>
            </blockquote>





	This Time

Castiel heard them say goodbye, but couldn't be bothered to give a shit because Candy here insisted that this shot tasted exactly like cinnamon toast crunch, and he was trying to figure what the hell cinnamon toast crunch was when he realized that the Winchesters had already left. Huh. Ironic, them disappearing on him this time. 

He had about ten seconds to wax philosophical about this when Candy sucked down the shot, pried open his mouth, kissed him, and transferred the liquor from her mouth to his; his throat burned from Hotdamn and he decided the best way to quench the fire in his mouth was by licking further into Candy's. Who needs Winchesters anyway, when you have a mouthful of a Swedish blonde who tastes sweeter than her name. All they do is belittle and bitch and bemoan, looking incredulous when he asks for the littlest bits of information, then talking down to him about the simplest tasks thereafter. You accidentally piss yourself because you are neither used to sneezing nor holding your bladder and suddenly every time you pass a gas station in the Impala you have two idiots asking very solemnly "Do you need to use the restroom?" His people skills might not be the greatest, but he's watched humanity for nearly 4 millennia. He understands the basic concepts like taking a shit or using deodorant or masturbating. It's the social customs unique to this era and area that his has trouble with, like why walking around nude while asking where his pants went is considered 'wrong.' 

Gentle nips turned into vicious bites, and at some other point in time Cas may have cared if he was hurting her. Candy, apparently, was used to the treatment, and crawled onto his lap to straddle and writhe in time with the excessively loud, excessively repetitive music that shrieked in the background. The term drowning out your thoughts came into sudden and complete clarity, as the music and other sensations blocked out any other string of coherent concepts. Candy chose that moment to grind her hip into his thigh at an odd angle and he had to stretch his legs out to relieve the pain. Seconds later someone tripped over his boots; much to his dismay, Candy felt the jolt and turned to see who disturbed them. 

"Sorry 'bout that," Castiel said pre-emptively, readjusting in his seat to peer around the blonde. The new positioning left both girls within reach of their drinks. And each others mouths. "I'm drunk and not paying attention," he went on, looking up at who he'd just assaulted. His eyebrows went up in surprise; his black leather motorcycle jacket clung in all the right places, a tight green shirt underneath showing off the bits the jacket didn't. Loose jeans tightened as he picked himself off the ground and wow that was a nice ass. His dark eyes matched his dark hair, and Cas momentarily became lost in the void, causing his train of thought to derail. 

"John!" Cas shouted to the bartender when words came back to him, "A drink for my friend here, mister..." he trailed off, hoping the Italian heartthrob would get the hint. He'd have to thank Sam for that trick later. He did, and damn that smile could melt even the Winchester's hearts. He gave a short laugh. 

"No one can pronounce my name," he said in a thick accent, dusting off his pants, "but my friends call me Dean." 

... Dean, huh? 

"First round's on me, Dean," Cas replied, relishing in the sound of that name rolling off his tongue. 

The moment he finished speaking, Candy attacked his mouth again with redoubled ferocity, hell bent on reminding him of her presence in his lap. Cas responded in kind, but his left his eyes open to watch 'dean' plant himself at the bar. Candy noticed his lack of enthusiasm, and broke off the kiss to protest; Cas wanted to continue his study of the leather clad newcomer, but he also did not want her to stop -- it felt too good. So before she could follow his gaze to where his eyes and mind had wandered off to, Cas took a fistfull of her fair at the base of her skull, exhaled a wet, hot breath up her neck, mouth hovering just above hers, forcibly redirecting her attention back to him. For a moment a hint of his old self came back, darkness in his eyes demanding respect with a threat of what was to come if he didn't get it. He found her unworthy, dropped her, and marched directly over to the restroom. He had felt a pressure growing in his lower abdomen, and you only needed to see that mixture of embarrassment and pity on Dean's face once to know what needing to urinate felt like. 

 

It wasn't until he shoved down his jeans that Cas realized the sensation had to do with a completely different primal urge. Now free from the restraining fabric, his half hard cock just begged to be touched. Cas wrapped his hand around the base like he'd seen so many others do before, and moaned out loud as he stroked up the tip and back, bringing himself to complete erection in minutes. He knew how it worked, seen the mechanics of it time and time again, but never the feel, the way the pleasure spread through your body and blocked out your mind, stopped all those wandering thoughts to focus on yes and please and more. He swayed a bit, then leaned his forearm against the wall for stability. 

After a few tentative strokes his hand moved faster, falling into a steady pace that had him moaning in delight. Some element was missing, some unknown piece; his beautifully destructive human mind decided to fill in that gap for him, digging up a most wanton image from the recesses of his memory of a certain hunter dripping wet from the rain. Those green eyes sparkling in radiance because he was actually smiling; dark black shirt painted onto his skin, leaving every crevice, every dip and roll in the muscle on display for all to see. He walked in with one leg out of his blue jeans, because Dean always preferred being pantless to shirtless. Then his clothes seemed to melt away and that tempting cock of his was being fisted and pulled, then sucked down and oh Dean oh Dean oh Dean. He knew the door had opened but couldn't bother to care, everything felt so amazing and fuck human etiquette anyways. He hadn't realized he was moaning Dean's name until he heard a throaty laugh behind him. In a paralyzing moment of hope and fear, he whipped around to find that male model slotting himself against Cas's back. His heart dropped, realizing who it was – well, who it wasn’t. Confusion set in, until their eyes met, and not-his-Dean ran his fingers across the exposed skin above Castiel's jeans, until his hand wrapped around his cock. 

"If you wanted to moan my name," he whispered into Cas's ear, lips teasing the lobe, "all you had to do was ask." 

He really should have said something. Protested either the accusation or the action, but how do you politely tell someone 'No, not you, I wanted to fuck a different Dean,' when their fingers are so deftly running the length of your cock and--

"Holy shit," he moaned, bucking into the hand that had gone from 'exploratory touch' to 'I'm gonna make you come' in less than 3 seconds. It felt so good to be taken care of, to be desired, to be touched not out of pity or obligation, but pure unadulterated want. He leaned deeper into his forearm, letting Dean work his magic while whispering the filthiest things into his ear. Castiel closed his eyes and slipped back into the mental image of his Dean, dripping rivulets of water off the black anti-possession tattoo, off his lips, off his jaw and he babbled the name of the one he wanted as another smiled when he came. 

The convenient thing about jerking off into a urinal was the ease of cleanup. Dean stroked him out a few times before guiding Castiel's hand back onto his own cock. The man kissed him, gently and inviting, before taking off again out of the restroom, leaving Cas to clean himself in a post-orgasm haze. As he came down from the high, the mud of his mind cleared enough to be replaced by an empty hollowness in the center of his chest. He didn't feel satisfied, he didn't feel relieved. It was as if someone had scrambled with his insides and then sown him back up again, and though he didn't understand why, he was fairly certain more alcohol could fix this somehow. 

He fell through the bathroom door back out to the bar, and the girl was attacking him before he could stand upright. She threw herself on him, and in the blurred edges of his mind, somewhere, he surely recognized the woman, but at the moment his only concern was to drown out some screeching in the back of his head at how disgusted he was. He picked her up and dropped her on the table, sucking her tongue down for ten seconds before realizing this wasn’t doing it for him anymore, and left her behind like empty beer bottle. He downed the last of whatever alcohol was within reach, tossing crumpled bills behind him like used tissues. 

Not-his-Dean wasn’t sitting at the bar anymore. He brain was too muddled by alcohol to understand the implications of this, so he stumbled out the front door for some air. Not fresh air, though, as a gathering of smokers had started in the alleyway, standing the required ten feet from the business entrance. He was walking towards them before he had even realized they were smoking, so desperate for human contact that he’d walk into oncoming traffic if it meant meeting someone. That’s when he saw him. Dean, but not his Dean, hands jammed in his pockets, fishing out a lighter for the cigarette hanging out of the corner of his mouth. 

Castiel strode over to him, shoved him against the side of the building and practically fucked him with his mouth, pausing only for a moment to pull the cigarette out of the way. Dean’s hands went up in surprise at first, then slipped under Castiel’s shirt, pulling him closer by his jeans. Castiel pressed harder, desperate to regain that elation of drowning in fantasy and sensation, coherent thought and weighty emotions buried beneath touch and want and heat. A hand pushed him back slightly to replace his lips with the end of a cigarette, but Cas stole it away, lips delicate around the filter as he inhaled, shoving Dean against the hard brick once more as he slowly let the breath out, inches away from man’s lips. Dean moaned something unintelligible and bucked his hips up, Cas wrapping his hand tight around his ass to force the friction to stay right where he wanted it. Castiel locked eyes with the man. 

“Take me home,” he growled, the phrase sounding more like a threat than an invitation. Dean surged forward to reclaim those demanding lips, only to be shown his place by Castiel as the ex-angel bit him. Hard. 

“Absolutely,” he replied, sliding out from behind the wall. He motioned Castiel to follow, slinging a leg over what was apparently his motorcycle. 

The ride back was one giant blur, and before Cas could question what he was doing, they were on the bunker’s doorstep, in the entryway, passing the kitchen. His thoughts were too coherent for his own liking so he whipped around and claimed the man behind him, pushing against him before taking in those luscious lips. Dean responded with pleased little noises, trying to encourage Castiel’s mouth while also encouraging their tour to the bedroom. 

They bumped into tables, knocked over lamps, and used the wall as a handrail on a path down to Castiel’s bed. Castiel pushed Dean against the wall. Dean, but not his Dean. Maybe his Dean would hear. Maybe he wouldn't. Castiel chose to ignore those thoughts and focus on the noises not-his-Dean made when you sucked on his neck. He slotted against him, pinning him against the hard surface, thrusting and clawing until they fell off balance again and down the hall they went. After a moment of fumbling with the door knob they were both through and Dean's hands made quick work of his shirt. Dean but not his Dean. Castiel made quick work of Dean's pants, dropping on his knees to work the zipper open, pull the jeans down, mouthing up his cock through cotton briefs. Loud, he wanted the man loud, moaning and whining and covering up anything his brain could come up with, loud enough to let the entire bunker know there were two bodies in this bed instead of one. 

The rest of their clothing fell off quickly, the two of them collapsing backwards onto the mattress with a creak. He turned Dean over, sliding his cock up the cleft of his ass as he pulled him on his knees. He found lube, found condoms, found his fingers working the man open as he whispered things intended for another man into his ears. You’re gorgeous. You’re beautiful when you smile. A look from you roots me to the ground and makes me tremble. He opened his eyes half expecting another Dean writhing beneath his ministrations, and the only thing could distract him from reality was sinking into the needy ass in front of him, fingers bruising his hips as thrust in unrestrained, lip splitting where bit it to keep silent as fucked the man into the mattress. Dean more than made up for his lack of noise, needy whimpering moans filling the room with each thrust. Dean, but not his Dean. When Castiel came, it was with another man’s name on his lips, a soft whispered plea; for a moment, in the post-coital blur, it was as if his fantasy had come alive, and everything was perfect. 

Then he opened his eyes.


End file.
